Fondu au Noir
by It's an Existential Crisis
Summary: Francoeur contemplates his relationship with the humans as strange things begin happening to him; his existence begins to change and not knowing what else to do, he fights it, Francille.


**Strangeways**

Francoeur was a novelty –attracting fans, fear, and scientists galore. Of course, though he had the same mental capacity as a human and even a fluent understanding of language, he did not really understand where all this attention came from or why; he was a humble giant, and graciously accepted it and answered any and all questions whenever Lucille and Raoul assured that it was safe to do so. Why exactly it wouldn't be safe, he wasn't always entirely sure, but he had learned at least one thing about human from Mayor Maynott – they can have many faces. And so, though he often made his presence as un-intimidating as possible and approached others with watchful caution, he greatly enjoyed his existence among these colorful creatures. He had enough love for all his admirers, enough grace to turn away from the doubters, and enough passion for a very long-lasting career on stage, with his angel of Paris.

And though he did not mind answering many questions from the many spectacled eyes of the many different men that came specifically to see him, there were some questions he just couldn't answer. Indeed he was tested and is on par with human intelligence, but he really only knew as much as a small child, though he was learning steadily. There were questions that Raoul could answer, being much closer to the professor now than before, but there were still others that… really no one could answer but him. Like, what his relationship was with Lucille.

On one hand, she was his friend, his literal angel who saved him, who gave him everything, and who encouraged him and taught him things – he realized he had never known a "mother," still being just a flea, really, but as far as mother figures went, he was she that she was his. And on the other hand…

Well, not that it mattered anyway. She was not his, and he was not hers; they were separate beings, he had to remind himself.

But even then, there were questions he had himself. He wasn't really one to think too much about things, he did not question his purpose in this world like most humans do. He was, after all, still a flea. But there were others, like some of the changes in his body, strange aches here and there, and other things too, of course.

When he was just a small flea, with no self-awareness, he never had dreams before, colorful vivid and sometimes frightening dreams – an awful experience at first, but after a while he began to enjoy them (after Lucille had explained what they really were).

There were many things he greatly enjoyed about human life. Like sweet tea and cakes, and warm sweaters and "cat naps" (and oh, how he love cats) – but that was another thing that intrigued him. Emotions. Such a wild range of feelings, like colors you can hold – he was sure that these strange emotions were what made music to beautiful, feelings that danced through your ears and into your heart; he tried to incorporate all the new things and feelings he had experienced into his songs as often as he could.

But there were still other questions. And other emotions too, ones that did make him question his existence, one's he did recognize but felt different. He knew fear. But this was different – he didn't know how, but it was.

Something very strange was happening – of course, many strange things had happened, but this particular instance was different, in that, it was not an instance, but rather a period of time that felt. There was no immediate danger, nothing to fear, things were going well at the club, his friends were happy. Well, not that he would really know.

Could that be it? His friends? His gut wrenched in a very uncomfortable twisting knot that left his chest feeling cold. But why? His friends would never hurt him, so what was wrong?

… What was wrong?

They did seem to be different, now that he thought about it. Raoul and Emile used to always shake his hand after a show, but they haven't lately. Lucille, as well, she- … won't look him in the eye.

What a strange thought – that eye contact could suddenly mean so much to him. No, he thinks, you are simply a paranoid flea. Eyes were never that important to him before – and he doesn't want to think about why they suddenly were now, or else he might find himself on a very awkward tangent that certainly only lead to disappointment… perhaps because he already knew.

But now that he's thinking, he can't really help it. Is that it? Are they upset because they know as well? The thought boils the blood in his face and his eyes almost water from the sheer heat and power of it. Did all of them know of his true feelings for Lucille, the angel of Paris?

He did not understand why this was such a bad thing, but he knew that it was. He just knew it. Just as he knew it could never happen, he just knew, the same way he knew exactly what to do with that guitar in her dressing room.

* * *

><p>Francoeur, after taking his final bow, left the stage with Lucille in silence. She let her hair down and he made himself small. He watched her for a moment, as she sighed and splashed a bit of water on her face, turning his attention elsewhere when she turned back to him, so as not to make her uncomfortable. She must know. There is no other explanation. Wordlessly, he excuses himself through the door, into his own dressing room, which doubled as his bedroom, closing the door behind him softly. More aches and pains. Now in his chest of all places, and in his head this time too. He looks around the room, thinking.<p>

He sits on his little couch (which was actually a rather large couch), and removes his gloves and mask, holding them for a moment. He knows he is not human. And yet, his heart feels differently. He looks at the gifts on his dresser, the furniture and paintings on the wall – how strange it is to be human. Not that he would know.

... But he did know music. He picks up his guitar without any second thoughts – it feels natural, like it was meant to be. If his thoughts cannot explain his feelings, his music surely could. Perhaps, if Lucille did not understand his words, she would understand his song. He readies his fingers and…

Nothing happens.

Not a sound.

Only a silent panic, and a breathless cry.

There were no words. Only cold, desperate colors that enveloped around him and dove into his throat like liquid glass that silenced all sound. This feeling was something he had never experienced before – the feeling of bugs crawling around on his skin. It made him shiver uncontrollably, until he swallowed the glass stopper in his throat with a painful tug, feeling it drop into his stomach like dry ice, burning him inside out. How strange it is, to be so human, and not.


End file.
